


Backpfeifengesicht

by WritingQuill



Series: Meanings [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, First Kiss, Five Times, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backpfeifengesicht (German): a face badly in need of a fist</p><p>"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backpfeifengesicht

**Author's Note:**

> Five times John really wanted to punch Sherlock, and one time he did.

**Backpfeifengesicht** (German): _a face badly in need of a fist_

***

‘I always hear “punch me in the face” when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext’ 

***

_One_

At this point, John Watson had been living with Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker Street for about a month, give or take. He was happy there, albeit a bit overly stressed by his flatmate’s experiments. But the adrenaline was always there, fuelling him, bringing the battlefield back, so John couldn’t complain. 

In one lucky evening, while he was at the pub with some old mates from uni, a lovely woman gave him her phone number. He called the next day, and thus John Watson had a date for the next weekend. 

She was lovely indeed. Perfect height — not much taller than John, but not too short either — and beautiful auburn hair. Trimmed fingernails, but nicely polished in light pink, and almost no make-up at all. She dressed sensibly and wore simple glasses. Her name was Patricia Herring, and she was a physical therapist. John liked her instantly. 

It all went to hell during their first date, on a surprisingly not-cold Saturday night. 

John had worn dark brown trousers, a light blue dress shirt and a grey jacket. No tie. His belt matched his shoes, and his hair had been recently trimmed. By the time he bid Sherlock good-bye, his flatmate was still entranced by the same experiment of two nights ago. With any luck there would be no cases, but in the chance that there might be, John left his mobile on vibrate. 

John and Patricia took a nice walk around the park, talked about their professions — _not_ the army — and other banal subjects. Then they took a cab to a nice French bistro in Kensington John had read about in yesterday’s _Independent_. Since he had made reservations, they got a table fairly quickly and sat comfortably as the waiter brought the wine they ordered. Patricia smiled brightly as she sipped her Chardonnay, and John smiled back, drinking his own Sauvignon Blanc. Just an ordinary date between two ordinary people. Lovely. 

Just as they were finishing their entrees, a loud figure barged into the restaurant, startling the patrons. John heard the maitre d’ complaining loudly in French as the intruder talked back, also in French. He turned back to find Sherlock strutting — the man was _strutting_ , for God’s sake — towards their table, grinning like a madman. John knew exactly what that grin meant, and he was already formulating excuses when Sherlock reached them. 

‘There’s a case, John!’ he said, simply, pulling John up by his wrist. John glared at him. 

‘What is this?’ Patricia asked. 

‘Well, this is my fla—‘ 

‘No time, John, there’s a locked room murder!’ Sherlock said excitedly. ‘Missing hands and internal organs! No blood in sight. It’s Christmas!’ Sherlock rambled on as he pulled John out of the bistro. John tried to make his excuses, but it was impossible as he was dragged away. 

He really wanted to punch Sherlock right now. And he almost did, as they stood in the sidewalk before entering the cab Sherlock had summoned magically. John had a fist ready to hit one of those ridiculous cheekbones, but something stopped him. 

Sherlock was smiling for the first time in a week, and John soon joined him, smiling as well. 

Needless to say his date had gone to hell. But it was soon forgotten by the incredible rush of solving mysteries and running through the streets of London behind his ridiculous flatmate. 

*

_Two_

A loud bang woke John up that morning. He threw on a t-shirt hastily and ran down the stairs, almost tripping up on his feet in the process. As he reached the kitchen, John found the source of the noise. He looked at his watch and groaned. 

‘It’s five in the bloody morning, Sherlock,’ he complained, then pinched the bridge of his nose. 

Sherlock was covered in some sort of white powder, which was incidentally also covering every available surface of their kitchen. There was a glass beaker in front of him filled with something spongy and green, which was now on fire. Sherlock had his eyes closed, using his now-ungloved fingers to remove some of the powder from his face. 

‘I am aware of the time, John, thank you,’ he said, sounding bored as ever. He opened his eyes and looked around the room with curiosity. ‘Fascinating.’ 

‘What is fascinating?’ John asked, even though he didn’t really care about the answer, he just wanted to go back to sleep and for his kitchen to be clean by the time the rose. 

Sherlock hummed, took another look around and stood up. ‘Sorry, can’t stay. I believe I have solved that cold case with the fisherman’s wife and the blind cat. I’ll be at the Yard,’ he said as he put on that dramatic coat of his and stepped out the door, and down the stairs, leaving a stupefied John standing at the entrance of the kitchen, which was still covered in white powder. And, apparently, it it depended on the detective, it would be for the remainder of its existence. 

John sighed deeply and loudly, aware that Sherlock would not hear him. He clenched his fists, feeling the urge to run after his flatmate and bury his fists repeatedly in Sherlock’s face. And stomach. Repeatedly. Painfully. Until he could no longer speak. 

He shook his head and looked around the kitchen once more. _I should not be putting up with this shit_ , John thought as he reached for the materials necessary to clean whatever it was that was covering everything. As John swept the floor with the broom, he hoped that the thing wasn’t toxic. And that Sherlock tripped and fell face down on his way to the Yard. 

*

_Three_

When he was being strapped to a bomb, all John could think of was how much he wanted to punch Sherlock Holmes. Because he was the stupidest genius ever to walk on the planet. John glared as one of Moriarty’s minions put a coat on him to cover the Semtex. Who the hell taunts a criminal mastermind? Who plays a game with a serial bomber? Who _does_ that? Someone very stupid, John decided. Very stupid indeed. 

Even though he still wanted to punch Sherlock — _so so very very much_ — he didn’t want him dead. In fact, John would rather die than see that beautiful brain go to waste because of a stupid game with another bored genius. So he threw himself on “Jim” and hoped for the best. There were snipers. Damn. 

Moriarty left, and so did his need to punch his friend. As Sherlock took off the parka and the bombs, John could only sigh in relief, happy it was all over. 

When Moriarty came back, the urge to punch something came back with it. But now it wasn’t Sherlock-specific. He could really punch anything right now. He would love to punch that little weasel until he was numb. “I’m so changeable”, he had said. Little fucker. 

Their stressful meeting was finally over. Nothing had exploded — _thank God_ — but the criminal mastermind was still at large. John still wanted to hit Sherlock in the face with a fist. 

They walked out of the Pool grinning, though, like crazy people. The rush of barely-surviving was unparalleled, and John revelled in it. He and Sherlock exchanged a look, a meaningful look, but John didn’t know what it meant. All he knew was that that had been the best night of his life. 

*

_Four_

They were at the lab at St Bart’s when Molly walked in. 

It was a day like any other. John was jotting some observations down — because Sherlock could at least trust, if only a bit, in his opinions about science — as Sherlock observed a bit of soil on the microscope. Molly walked in, carrying a mug of coffee and a few filed that had been requested by Sherlock through John. 

‘I have those results you asked for,’ she said, her eyes glued to the detective, even though she was technically speaking to John. 

‘Thank you,’ John said, picking the files up from her arms before she dropped them. Molly then walked over to Sherlock, offering the coffee mug. 

‘I made you—‘ 

‘Go away,’ Sherlock said sharply, eyes trained on the soil under the lenses. ‘I did not ask for coffee and your mumbling presence is distracting.’ 

Molly closed her mouth and gulped. She nodded, and John could see that her eyes were glassy. She sniffled and turned her back to Sherlock, then marched out. A soft sob could be heard through the door. John sighed and turned to Sherlock. 

‘Could you not have just accepted the coffee?’ 

Sherlock looked up and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would I accept coffee if I didn’t want any coffee?’ 

‘You always accept tea when even if you don’t want any,’ John replied. 

‘It’s different,’ Sherlock said quietly and John groaned. 

‘You hurt her, Sherlock! Even more than normally. You can’t just treat people like that!’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘She’s overly sentimental. If anything, I’m doing her a favour.’ 

John laughed humourlessly. ‘Really? By flirting with her when you need something and treating her like she’s nothing when she’s being inconvenient?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

Right now John was glad there was a whole lab separating him from Sherlock, because he could have easily just punched him right in the nose. How could he be so cynical? So careless with other people’s feelings? Molly was a vulnerable girl, he couldn’t keep treating her like rubbish. 

But Sherlock yelped and claimed he had found what he needed to catch the right culprit. John had to shove his thoughts away because the chase was more important right now. 

* 

_Five_

‘I don’t have friends!’ Sherlock declared. John was speechless. Of course Sherlock would say something like that. Of course this absolute idiot would still think he was above having friends, having fun, being afraid. John needed to leave. He couldn’t sit there any longer, looking at Sherlock’s tear-covered face as he downed whisky like it was water. No. If he stayed, he would end up strangling his… what? They clearly weren’t “friends”, so what were they? Partners? Not just flatmates, obviously. 

John almost punched Sherlock when he stood up to leave. He almost did. Because he felt worthless. What was he doing, then? If they weren’t friends… Of course they were! John was there! He was always there! He always replied and always made himself available. He lo— cared so much for Sherlock, how could he not… How dare him? He was scared, frightened, in need of help, but as always, Mr Caring-Is-Not-An-Advantage didn’t need friends, didn’t have any. Well, may he enjoy the rest of his days, then, John decided as he walked back to where he’d seen the morse code. He pushed Sherlock right out of his mind — it never worked, that… Sherlock was always on his mind somehow — and decided to find out what the hell ‘UMQRA’ meant. 

* 

_And one_

John always did the shopping on Mondays because he didn’t have to work. He was walking back to Baker Steet — he had moved back eighteen months after… the Fall, because Mrs Hudson was having trouble finding new tenants, and he couldn’t bring himself to deny her — carrying a few bags from Tesco when he saw him. 

Standing right outside his door was the figure he thought he’d never see again, that was supposed to be buried six feet under rotting slowly. He was still so very tall, but his posture wasn’t as looming and poised as it once was. He was leaning heavily against the door, right knee folded slightly under him. His hair was shorter and lighter, making his skin look even fairer. He was wearing leather jacket over a navy blue hoodie, a ratty t-shirt and faded jeans. He looked like an undergrad at some fancy art college. 

Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead. But instead he eyed John cautiously through his curly fringe and his hand gripped the hem of his jacket tightly. John dropped the Tesco bags, not minding the waste of a perfectly good dozen of eggs. He walked over to that dead man, eyes wide, unbelieving. 

‘Sher..?’ he couldn’t even bring himself to say the name he had fought so hard not to think about every second of every day for the past three years. He was supposed to be dead! 

Sherlock looked at him and gave him a small smile that seemed foreign on that sad face. ‘I’m back, John,’ was all he said, voice hoarse with disuse. 

‘You’re… but I…’ John stood before him, looking up at his best friend, his everything. He was supposed to be dead. John needed to do something. Needed to know this was real, he could be hallucinating — again. He needed to _know_. So John punched him. 

Sherlock did not see it coming. His eyes were wide in the split second it took for John’s fist to hit his left cheek, and then he was hitting the door of 221. ‘You’re real…’ John whispered, waving his fist and unclenching it. The pain was non-existent. Sherlock was alive, and he was real, and he was very much _there_. 

‘Thank you for that,’ Sherlock groaned when he stood up again, massaging his face with a scarred hand. ‘I could have told you that myself, no need for violence.’ 

‘You’re alive… But… I saw…’ John’s eyes were still unbelieving, but Sherlock was physically there, he’d felt it. 

‘Yes. I’ll explain all that once—‘ but he was interrupted by John’s arms enveloping him in a relieved hug. Because, yes, answers would be very welcome, but right now contact was more important. So Sherlock hugged John back, and he smelled the same, exactly the same. _Home_.

They parted after what seemed like seconds, but could have been hours. John looked up at that — now bleeding slightly — face that he had missed so much, and what he did next was the most natural thing in the world. 

He stood on his tip toes and kissed Sherlock Holmes. And was kissed right back. 

John sighed in relief into Sherlock’s mouth because he was finally home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
